


Too Close for Comfort

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bravery, Caves, Claustrophobia, Gen, Prompto Proves Himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: It looks about as wide as a desk drawer, and not much taller.It's also pitch black. Like daemons bubbling up out of the ground black. Like Noct's entire wardrobe black. Like someone spilled ink on the Regalia at midnight black.Prompto says, "You're joking," and his mouth feels as dry as the long, dusty road leading away from Longwythe.





	Too Close for Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> For Kaciart, who wanted Prom having a bad time with small spaces in a dungeon. Thank you for such a fun idea! I've been wanting to do something awful with Prom's claustrophobia for awhile now. :)

It looks about as wide as a desk drawer, and not much taller.

It's also pitch black. Like daemons bubbling up out of the ground black. Like Noct's entire wardrobe black. Like someone spilled ink on the Regalia at midnight black.

Prompto says, "You're joking," and his mouth feels as dry as the long, dusty road leading away from Longwythe.

"We've got to check everywhere," says Noct. "What are we supposed to do, just turn around and head back?"

Prompto stares at the hole in the cave wall. His head feels swimmy and kind of strange, and he hasn't even _done_ anything yet. He says, "So what if is in there? Tomb or no tomb, dude, we're not gonna fit. It's physically impossible."

"We're only asking you to try," says Ignis, in a tone that he probably thinks is reasonable, but that Prompto is pretty sure actually heralds his last days on Eos. "If you get through and find the way in, we'll devise a way to join you."

Prompto takes a deep breath, and he lets it out slow. He takes another. "So I'm the guinea pig."

"You're the scout," says Gladio. He claps Prompto on the shoulder, so hard he almost goes down. "Weren't you saying this morning you wanted to do something badass? None of the rest of us can pull this off. It's all you."

Isn't breathing supposed to help? He's pretty sure breathing's supposed to help. So why do his lungs feel like someone's trying to squish them flat with a rolling pin?

Prompto can't remember: has he ever mentioned he's claustrophobic before? Maybe now's a good time. Maybe they can tack it onto the list of things he just can't handle and leave well enough alone.

There's a beat of silence, three expectant pairs of eyes fixed on him. The quiet pulls and lengthens, like taffy; it sags in the middle.

At last, reluctantly, Noct says: "I mean, I guess I can try? Prompto's not that much smaller than I am. And that way, if there's a tomb, I'm in there anyway."

Prompto can feel the weight of Ignis' stare. It settles around his shoulders, heavy as a collar made of lead, and he can practically hear the thoughts that come with it, clipped and accented and terribly disapproving: you're a member of the Crownsguard. Keeping His Highness safe is your sworn duty.

Prompto swallows, with some difficulty. He takes another handful of breaths that don't really seem to help. He says, "Nah, dude. I got this."

"Now we're talking," says Gladio.

There's a moment – one brief, shining moment – when Prompto hopes that someone will say, "Wait, on second thought, this is an awful idea."

No one does.

So Prompto gets down on the rocky floor, on his knees. It's a little damp, and the air's kind of chilly. He stares into the hole in the cave wall, and the darkness stares back. It's maybe 11" by 14". Maybe. Tops.

"You'd be better served by taking your flashlight off," says Ignis. "It won't illuminate much, clipped to your vest like that."

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Sure."

He feels his fingers moving, like they're on autopilot. They undo the clasp, and he's not sure where the hell he's supposed to stick it for a minute – then, in a fit of inspiration, he clips the flashlight to his wrist band.

"Well," he says. "Here goes."

He waits for someone to say that they've thought better of it – that no one has to crawl into a tiny hell cave, after all. He feels like he's going to puke.

"Uh," says Noct. "Prompto?"

"Yeah," says Prompto, and finally jerks into motion. "Yeah, I'm going."

Gods. He's going to have to go in hands first. He's gonna be pressed flat on his Astrals-be-damned stomach, slithering along like a snake. For a minute, the enormity of it washes over him, and the edges of his vision go grey.

"Perhaps," says Ignis, "we'd best find another way through, after all."

"Already in," says Prompto, tone aiming for levity and coming out strangled and weirdly high-pitched. Then he sticks his hands in, and then his arms to the elbow, and then he's up to the shoulders, and why did he ever think this was a good idea?

He can feel the rock touching him on all four sides. He's going to puke, he knows it.

But they're waiting for him, all three of them: his only friends, every single one of them smarter and faster than stronger than he is. Every single one of them nobility, trained to be clever and diplomatic and devastating in a fight.

And here he is, just Prompto. And for once – for once they need _him_.

Prompto shoves in, and he immediately regrets it. It's a hundred times worse than he thought it would be. The rock is actually pressing in on his chest, making it hard to take a full breath.

He closes his eyes for a minute, letting a wave of dizzying terror sweep through him. He can hear a voice behind him, muffled by rock and the obscuring press of his own body. "Prompto?"

"On it," he calls back.

Then he starts to move.

He can't really crawl. There's no space to crawl. It's not a hands-and-knees kind of deal. He squirms forward, pushing with his legs, pulling with his elbows. The only light is the flashlight clipped to his wristband. The only sound is his own breathing, ragged in his ears.

Prompto goes on for – he's not sure. It feels like weeks. His head is reeling, and his lungs are insisting they're suffocating. His stomach and his hips and his bare shoulders are scraping against the rock. It's going to be raw there. He's pretty sure his ribs are going to bruise.

When he sees the rock wall up ahead, he thinks he's done – thinks he's hit a dead end.

He's wrong. It's a turn.

If he thought going straight was hell, changing direction is a nightmare and a half. He has to work his shoulders in, one at a time – has to try it first one way and then the other, and then the first way again before he'll finally fit. Something snags on the small of his back as he finally pushes through; he feels the skin tear, and then something warm and wet.

Gods, if there's not some kind of opening at the end of this, he's done for. If there's not a wider space for him to turn around in, he's just going to be stuck.

He can't back into that turn, and he knows it.

The thought crashes down on him like the hundred thousand tons of rock above his chest. It slams in at full force, all blind, bone-shaking terror. It feels like those nightmares Prompto has sometimes, where the world is glass and metal, and he's trapped somewhere cold and dark and _tight_ , and no matter how much he screams, no one will come to let him out.

He can feel panic creeping up his throat like a living creature, something with claws. Don't, he tells himself. Don't you dare.

But panic can't be reasoned with. It laps at his feet and then swims up over his chest and drowns him.

He's sure the tunnel is getting tighter.

He's sure he'll never see daylight again.

He stops moving, and the world is darkness, and stale air, and inconceivable pressure.

At some point, the ragged, gasping breaths start to hitch in his throat and catch in his chest. His cheeks are wet, but there's no space to put his hands to his face and wipe them.

"Guys?" he yells, hoping his voice will carry. Maybe they'll hear. Maybe Ignis can think of a way to pull him back out.

But there's nothing – only his own heart, going like a jackhammer in his chest.

There's nothing, and nothing, and _more nothing_ , for a longer time than Prompto thought could possibly exist.

The panic doesn't pass, not really. But eventually it recedes, enough that the dark spots swimming in his vision pull away. His face is hot and sticky, and he's aware of the blood on his lower back, hot and sticky in a different way.

Prompto can't stay here. If he stays here, he's dead. But more importantly: if he stays here, Noct will never know whether there's a tomb hidden at the end of the tunnel, after all. They only asked him to do one thing.

Slowly, shaking, he presses on.

It takes a thousand years to reach the other side. Prompto doesn't realize that the tunnel's come to an end until he takes a breath in and doesn't feel the maddening press of rock on top of him. The breath after that is incredible, free and easy, and the one after that, the one when he hauls himself out into the chamber at the other end, is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Prompto sits there, on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, for a long time. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, and he tells himself to pull it together, but it's another twenty minutes before he can evening think about standing up.

He wobbles when he does – almost goes down. Catches himself on the cave wall and uses it to stand, glad for the first time that no one else is here. He must look like an absolute mess.

Hey, he tells himself. Calm down. You did it. Now just find the tomb, and you get to go back the conquering hero.

Prompto circles the cavern with shaky, uncertain steps, expecting daemons to make an appearance any second. But with every step, only silence greets his ears. The only thing to see is solid, unbroken rock.

He checks the ceiling for high passageways – peers into nooks and crannies for narrow tunnels. He circles back around to check the floor and see if maybe there's a pit or something he missed.

He didn't miss anything. It's an empty cavern, maybe the size of Noct's living room back in Insomnia. Only, instead of a swanky couch and a big-screen TV, it's full of a whole lot of nothing. It's full of Prompto, and the tiny drawer-sized hole he came in through.

It occurs to him, with a sick, welling sort of horror, that if he can't find another way out, he's going to have to double back.

He can feel the panic starting to set in again – digging in its claws, sharper than before.

You did it already, Prompto tries to tell himself. You can do it again.

But the irrational part of his mind, the part that's recoiling from the tiny crawlspace like a child from the monster under the bed, won't shut up. It's screaming, long and loud and shrill.

Rational thought checks out for a while.

When it comes back, he's sitting on the floor again, panting. His hands are bloody. The circular saw is lying on the floor beside him, and there's rock dust on his face and in his hair and floating in the air. Every breath burns. There's a sizable, saw-shaped dent in the wall.

Prompto closes his eyes.

He fumbles his cell phone out of his pocket, and he checks his messages, but there's no reception here.

He wonders how long he's been gone. He wonders if they're thinking of trying to get him.

His throat feels like he's been running all day in the desert, and it occurs to him, for the first time, that he has no water. He has no food.

He has to go back, or he'll be down here forever. Eventually his flashlight will give out, and it will be just him, here alone in the dark, until the end.

So there's not really a choice. There's not.

But it takes him a long time to convince himself that it's true – longer still to approach the tiny hole in the wall.

How did he ever fit through that?

How is he ever going to talk himself into trying again?

But he does. Somehow, he manages to put his arms out in front of him. Somehow, he doesn't break down there on the cave floor, when he feels his shoulders touch the edges. Prompto bites his lip, and he pushes forward, and the rock closes up around him and swallows him whole.

Prompto doesn't know how long the return trip takes him. Longer, he thinks, than the way there. He has to stop five times, and close his eyes, and try to breathe. Once, when he reaches the bend, he scrabbles uselessly at the rock with his bare hands, trying to buy another half-inch of space.

There's nothing. There's no give. His hands bleed more, and Prompto presses his face against his upper arm, and he lies there for a long time before he can move again.

When he catches sight of light up ahead, flickers and flashes, he thinks he may actually faint with relief. The dizziness comes again, stronger this time – grips him, shakes him, leaves him helpless. Then he hears their voices, and he drives himself forward, desperate and determined. He's close now. He's nearly there.

And they're talking about him.

He can hear it: hushed tones, worried words. He's been gone too long. Someone should go after him.

Noct's ready – has been ready, for some time – but they're afraid to block his exit if he's trying to backtrack.

"Guys?" says Prompto, voice wobbly and weak.

All at once, there are faces by the hole, and flashes of light. Prompto winces, and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Prompto?" says Noct.

And he's – he's reaching right in, offering his hand.

It's still too far away to take, so Prompto grits his teeth, and inches forward.

A little bit farther. Just a little bit farther.

There.

Noct's hand closes around his, and it burns. His palms are raw and bleeding. He thinks he's missing a fingernail.

"C'mon, Prom," says Noct. "You can do it."

He _can_ do it. Ignis and Gladio are there beside Noct, framed by the outcropping of rock like a painting of some other life. He takes a breath in and it hitches out again.

Prompto creeps forward, every centimeter a struggle. His arms are in the other chamber now. Then his face is.

Ignis says, "Oh, Astrals."

His shoulders are free. Then his chest.

Gladio's seizing him under the elbows and pulling, and suddenly he's out, all the way out, shaking on the ground.

"Tell me we've got potions left." That's Gladio, close at hand, but Prompto can't see him. His eyes are closed. It's taking everything he has just to breathe.

A steadying hand touches his shoulder, firm but gentle. Ignis. "Yes," he says. "Yes, of course."

He feels the liquid patter down onto his back – feels the flesh begin to knit closed where the rock's scraped it away.

Noct says, "Prom? C'mon, buddy, open your eyes."

Prompto blinks them open: discovers Noct's face, pale and tense with worry. "It wasn't there," says Prompto.

"What?" Noct's barely listening – touching his hand, gently, where the gouges haven't healed all the way.

"The tomb," says Prompto. "Wasn't there."

He's going to add more. Before he can get his mouth open to say anything else, though, Noct's arms are around him, squeezing so tight it hurts. It's a different kind of pressure, though, soft instead of hard.

He's vaguely aware of Ignis to one side, uncapping a second potion. He's vaguely aware of the magic washing over him, taking away the rest of his pain.

"Sorry," says Prompto. "Guess we're gonna have to keep looking."

"Like hell we are," says Noct, fiercely. "We're getting out of here."

He reaches out his hands for Ignis and Gladio – tightens his grip on Prompto. Then all at once, the world shifts around them, with the sickening sideways twist that heralds a warp.

When Prompto opens his eyes again, they're at the entrance to the cave. He can see open sky, pale blue and butter yellow with sunrise.

"We'll make camp," Noct's saying. "There was a haven nearby, right? We'll stay the night – stay a couple of days. Okay?"

He's looking at Prompto. Prompto's not sure why.

"Uh," he manages. "Sounds good? I mean, we better get back to it eventually, though."

"Our progress," Ignis cuts in smoothly, "will wait. For now, I think we could all do with a bit of a rest."

"You up to it?" says Gladio. "Haven's about a mile."

They're all looking at him. There's concern in their faces, and something underneath it – something new. It's the way they look at Gladio, after he cuts down an enemy twice his size.

Prompto blinks up at them. He feels something twitch at the corner of his lips. It's not a smile, but it skirts the edges of one.

"Yeah," he manages. "I got this."

And Noct holds out a hand to help him up.


End file.
